Day of Wrath (33 page)

‘If you're saying that our Latin friend is one of the monks, then why would he want to get rid of Agnes Myles? Bess Knowles, I understand. The poor lass was a witness. But Agnes Myles? Come off it, Lord Nicholas!'

‘Agnes Myles is a holy woman, a healer. She makes potions, balms for the whole village. She also knows about poisons. She buys valuable medicinal products from a merchant in Portsmouth. Everyone comes to her for some sort of healing. Now if anyone came to her for something a bit out of the ordinary, she'd remember. Then she might tell us if we jog her memory. And that person could be Ultor.'

‘Yes, I'm with you. But I don't think Ultor would visit Agnes Myles on his own. He'd send someone else, surely?'

‘He wouldn't if he's well known to Agnes. And I think Ultor works alone. He does the planning, but uses others to do his dirty work. He also knows human nature, and knows how to work on the prejudices of the local people.'

‘But there's no evidence that he is a monk. Hell's teeth, Lord Nicholas, I can only work with evidence; not supposition.'

Nicholas sighed and drained his tankard. ‘No, no evidence at all. Just a hunch. However, anything can happen, and I want to be there when it does. Now I must be off. I've got to check up on Jane.'

‘I hope she's soon better. And, by God, Lord Nicholas, I hope this fellow is one of your monks – he'll be outside my jurisdiction until the Bishop passes him over to me for hanging!'

*   *   *

When Nicholas arrived at Jane's house, she was out of bed and sitting in an armchair in the main living room, impatiently stabbing at a piece of embroidery with a needle. She got to her feet when Nicholas went in and he saw her wince with pain. He also saw her face flush with pleasure and thought how marvellous it was to be given such a welcome.

‘Thank God you've come, Nicholas. I was worried about you.'

‘There's no need. I take good care of myself. More than you do, I see. Shouldn't you be up in bed resting?'

‘Resting? I've done enough of that. How's Agnes? How's Benedict? Have you seen the Sheriff? What's the news?'

‘Hold on, Jane, you've got to take life quietly.' He kissed her lightly on the forehead and firmly pushed her down into the chair. ‘Agnes is fine; Benedict's looking after her. And you must rest, otherwise you'll not be well enough to sing to the King.'

‘And you, Lord Nicholas, can leave my house immediately,' said an angry voice behind him. ‘It's bad enough having a daughter who won't stay in bed without you coming along and talking to her about singing to the King. She's still frail. And you're not helping her, my Lord.'

‘Father, don't be such an old woman. Of course I'll be well enough. My back's a bit sore, but that'll soon go. Now please leave us; we've important things to talk about.'

‘Oh? Since when have you and Lord Nicholas had important things to discuss? Get on with your embroidery, lass. As soon as Brother Martin comes, we'll get you back into bed.'

‘I refuse to go.'

‘You will, my wench, even if I have to carry you up there myself.'

Nicholas smiled at Jane's furious face. ‘Don't worry, Jane; we'll talk later. Go carefully, now. You're safe in here. And I must ask you to lock your door, Master Warrener,' he said, turning to look at Jane's father, who was scowling at him like an angry boar. ‘We don't want any intruders in here.'

‘I've never locked my door in the daytime, and I'm not going to start locking it now,' said Warrener, walking across to the door and flinging it wide open.

‘I'm sorry, Nicholas, he means well. But do you think this really was an accident?' said Jane softly.

‘I'm sure it wasn't,' Nicholas said, glancing across at Warrener, who was getting increasingly impatient for him to leave.

‘Don't worry,' she said, ‘he's very deaf. Listen, I think there was someone up in the tower when we were there. Now I didn't see anyone but the birds were more restless than usual. Did you come across anything when you looked round?'

‘I found the place where the stone was removed. It was very neatly prised out of the wall. It was carried to the edge of the platform and dropped on you. Thank God you moved when you did. There was no evidence that the stone had been accidentally dislodged. In fact I would say that it couldn't have been. Now stay here and get strong and I'll come back when there's anything to report.' He bent down to kiss her and she lifted her face to his embrace.

‘And God go with you, Nicholas. And take care. You're in more danger than all of us.'

*   *   *

Nicholas rode home through the silent village. No groups of chattering women. No one sitting outside enjoying the sunshine. Front doors tightly shut. No one setting off to walk to Marchester. Everyone had turned inward, frightened to leave their cottages. It was as if the plague had struck; the same atmosphere of suspicion and fear. Fear of the unknown; fear of the supernatural.

*   *   *

Geoffrey was waiting for Nicholas when he rode up to his main gate.

‘My Lord, he's come, he's here,' said Geoffrey, looking white-faced and tense. ‘He drove into our courtyard without a by-your-leave, and he's making himself at home checking everything. The cheek of it!'

‘Who's come?' said Nicholas patiently, as he dismounted and summoned over a groom to take Harry away.

‘Why the Frenchie fellow. The King's sent him, so he says. Calls himself a steward. He's in our kitchen already taking the lids off our pots and telling Mary she doesn't know how to make proper custard. He's upset us all. He's got his own carriage. Look over there. Just look at all those arty drawings on it. He's got a fine strong horse, though.'

Nicholas glanced across the courtyard and saw a small, lightly built coach, designed to hold just one person. It was made of painted wood with long shafts and a seat for a coachman. The door panels were decorated with angels and cherubs, picked out in gold paint and blowing trumpets and playing harps.

‘Very pretty and very nippy. Now what's this Frenchman's name?'

‘Pierre Lamontagne,' said a soft, heavily accented voice behind him.

Nicholas turned round and saw a small, slightly built man with a shrewd face, twinkling eyes, curly dark hair and a small, perfectly trimmed beard. He wore fashionable clothes, a dark blue doublet with sleeves slashed to reveal a silk shirt underneath, blue slashed breeches, and a neat pair of soft leather shoes on his small feet, each shoe decorated with a blue rose on the front. He removed his blue, soft woollen hat with its curling feather and bowed gracefully. ‘At your service, my Lord. The King sent me to help with the arrangements. This man,' he said pointing a contemptuous finger at Geoffrey, ‘will not co-operate. The woman, now she's different. She'll be very useful, in time, when I've tamed her.'

‘Tame Mary,' roared Geoffrey, ‘just you try. You'll not tame an English lass with your foreign ways. I'm steward here. Getting ready for the King's my business.'

‘And just in case you've forgotten,' said Nicholas, fighting back a smile, ‘this happens to be my house, and I'll give the orders. Now Monsieur Pierre, we'll show you your room – I take it your coachman can look after himself – rest yourself, and come and join us for dinner tonight. Why not taste what we can provide, and then tomorrow you can show us some of your recipes.'

Monsieur Pierre bowed low and allowed himself to be led away. Nicholas went into the kitchen where Mary was in her usual place by the fire, stirring a pot. But today she looked different. She was smiling.

*   *   *

‘Mary,' Nicholas said, with a bowl of soup in his hand, ‘I want you to forget, just for a moment, the charming Monsieur Pierre and think back to when you were over at Mortimer's place.'

‘Those days are over and done with, my Lord. I'd much rather work here. Me and Monsieur Pierre will get on famously. He knows how to treat a woman. Geoffrey treats me like one of his servants. Now I'm to teach Monsieur Pierre some of our English recipes and he says he'll teach me how to make some real fancy dishes which the King likes. I've forgotten all about Sir Roger Mortimer – wicked man that he was; although he always seemed so holy.'

‘Holy? I didn't think he went to church regularly?'

‘He'd not go down to the church, not with all those common people. He had his own chapel, didn't he? Father Hubert came and said Mass for the family. If he couldn't come then the Prior'd send another priest. Even the old one who sits by people when they're dying. Sir Roger liked the monks. He said they were the real holy ones, nearer to God than the Vicar.'

‘So Father Hubert used to come and see him? Who else came from the Priory, Mary?'

‘Oh lots of them. I don't know all their names. The old one, I think he's called Father John, then Brother Martin came with his tonics and purges when any of the servants got bunged up.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘Someone came after dark. Real sinister it was. I never knew his name because he always pulled his cowl over his face. He'd come to say the night prayers with Sir Roger. Prayer, that's a laugh, isn't it? Much good it did him when he was hauled away to London. I only hope to God Lady Margot's all right; and the children. They say she's returned to her family the other side of the county. Let's hope she's left in peace. I still can't get over Sir Roger. Wicked he was. Much he cared about his family.'

Nicholas finished his soup and went into his study. Now, he thought, he was making progress. Several monks had visited Mortimer's house. Now he had to find out who the night visitor was – the one with the cowl pulled over his face. Mary made him sound sinister. But he knew that, unfortunately, all the monks covered their faces when they went out.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Nicholas's temper wasn't improved on Friday morning, after a disturbed night's sleep, by the sight of Monsieur Pierre hovering over him as he ate his breakfast.

‘My Lord, today is the first of June. We have six days, six days, to get this…' he paused as he looked contemptuously round the great hall of Peverell Manor. ‘This – barnyard cleared out,' he finished on a note of triumph.

Nicholas, who had become accustomed to living in a corner of the hall nearest the fire and had neglected the rest of the house, stared at him in astonishment. ‘Barnyard? I see no animals.'

‘See this straw?' said Pierre, kicking aside a scattering of straw which covered the cold flagstones of the floor. ‘Look, it crawls with animals. When did Monsieur Lowe last put down clean straw?'

Nicholas shuffled the straw under his feet. As far as he could remember, the straw hadn't been changed since Mary died. What was the point? It never got wet; it served its purpose well enough. Then, much to Pierre's delight, a mouse scampered out from under Nicholas's feet, immediately pounced upon by the family of cats who had taken up residence by the fire.

‘See, animals!' he said. And then, ‘Poof! The odour, my Lord. How can you stand it?'

Sure enough, in disturbing the straw Nicholas had released various sinister smells. Nicholas glared at Pierre. ‘Oh come now, it's not that bad,' he said as Pierre drew out an elegant handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose.

‘Bad? It's terrible. And I'll have you know the King does not like bad smells. Nor does he like animals under his feet.'

‘Well, what do you suggest?'

‘We replace it all. Now is the time for fresh herbs and flowers. The fields are full of them. Your barns must be stuffed with last autumn's straw for the animals. Well, get it out. Clean out this ordure,' he said waving his arms theatrically, ‘and put down fresh straw. But first you must scrub the floor. Then, just before the King arrives, we gather fresh herbs and lay them down for the King to crush under his feet. In this way, his Majesty's nostrils will be assailed by sweet smells, not this foul stench. The King tells me he wants no fuss, just simple bucolic pleasures. But simplicity, my Lord, is difficult to achieve. It means using only the best materials. Now where is Monsieur Lowe? He has much work to do.'

And so the whirlwind struck. The great hall was cleared of all its debris. The floor was scrubbed, fresh straw laid down. The cats were banished, the dogs kicked out. Then it was the turn of the sleeping quarters. The bedroom floors were scrubbed, the woodwork polished. The tapestries which had hung on the walls and over the doors to keep out the draughts for as long as Nicholas could remember, were taken down, hung out on posts in the yard at the back of the house, and beaten black and blue. Many of them were so worn that in some places the daylight came through, and then Geoffrey Lowe was sent off to find women from the village who knew how to sew valuable materials.

Then Pierre wanted to inspect the store cupboards and cellars, and Geoffrey, white-faced with anger, led the way. Pierre, with a slate in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other, wrote down a list of what was needed: more pigs, especially the newly born suckling piglets, wild boar, venison for pies, fowl of every sort, woodcock, duck, chickens, swans, larks and other song birds. ‘And then,' said Pierre looking triumphantly at Nicholas, who had joined them in the cellars, ‘we must have a surprise pie. The King expressly wishes to have a surprise pie.'

‘And what the hell's that?' said Geoffrey irritably.

‘Why Monsieur Lowe, you call yourself a steward and yet you don't know what a surprise pie is?'

‘Once upon a time, I was a mere bailiff. That suited me well enough until I got involved with Frenchmen and their fancy menus.'

‘Now, now, Monsieur Lowe, no tantrums please. A surprise pie, is a great pie, made with suet, and divided into compartments. In each compartment there is a different sort of meat. Now one of the compartments is left blank, and just before the pie is served, you add something spectacular. Once we put two live blackbirds in the empty compartment and that made the King laugh because he said it reminded him of the monks. We could put anything you like in it – one of those kittens, for instance; that will make the ladies laugh.'